The VideoBlog
by theshadowswhisper
Summary: Wendy joined Fingerbang the first time when she was eight years old.  At nineteen, she is starting to figure out why being a girl in a famous boyband is a pretty sucky deal.
1. Entry 1: Epiphany

**This is the worst I can do. Really, I'm sorry for this. I just wanted to write. Regardless of the fact that I clearly should be doing no such thing.**

**This is the first sign that I've lost it. I'm sure.**

**But hey, if you like this, you can thank kyleisgod. He convinced me to publish it. He's the best. Loves yoouu kyleisgod!**

_I'm Wendy Testaburger. A couple years ago, I made this videoblog so I wouldn't go insane. Now that it's not so important I keep secrets, I thought I'd share. You know, in case anyone cares about my side of the story. So here it is; the unedited truth about my life as T-Bird, everything you never wanted to know. _

_Enjoy, bitches. Someone said somewhere that the truth sets you free. And I've been trapped for too long in the Fingerban fuck-cluster. Time to set the record straight and leave behind the bullshit._

_Just remember, this is not my life anymore. Good night. _

It occurs to me that most people don't drop out of high school to start careers because some kid has a dream.

It also occurs to me that you should probably Google that shit BEFORE you go and get a boob job at nine-years-old. If you fuck with plastic surgery too young, you ruin your chances to ever develop normally. Translation: I'm flatter than a twelve year old Vietnamese boy in the chestal-region. But that comes in handy. See, the world THINKS I'm a boy. A famous boy. In a band.

Bottom line? It sucks to be a girl in an internationally recognized boyband at nineteen years old. Not that you should just take my word for it. But I know that for _me_, it sucks. Hard.

The band is called _Fingerbang_. You may have heard of it. It's both managed and led by Eric Cartman. Who, by the way, is still an asshole. For real. I'm not joking here, he's a COLOSSAL asshole. The kind of guy who kicks over grocery carts with children in them. For fun. That kind of person. Yeah, HE'S our manager and lead singer.

Fingerbang was born because Eric Cartman, at eight years old, wanted to make a million dollars. It was reborn seven years later when Eric Cartman, at fifteen years old, decided he wanted to make a million dollars. The rest of us just wanted to get the hell out of South Park. He offered us a chance to break out, and none of us had a good reason to turn it down. After a month of preparations, we got out to Hollywood, where Eric (always scarily manipulative) talked a desperate producer into giving us a chance, and we premiered as a background group for some rapper. A year later, and we had released out first hit music video. A year after that, we were opening for Justin Beiber. Before you could say "sell-out" we'd achieved Eric's dream of making a million dollars several times over. And it just kept getting better.

It took a surprisingly long time to figure out that my predicament was less than desirable. Little things tipped me off, like the horrors of having to use the boy's restroom, or getting disturbing fan-mail from sex-driven teenaged girls.

But I kind of knew I was fucked when I sprung a girl-boner for the biggest douche-wad to ever wear orange parachute pants. Especially because said douche-wad periodically brought home a handful of groupies with huge tits and bouncy asses to screw nine-ways-to-Sunday after the show. Then I was really fucked, let me tell you. In a situation like that, if you can't eat your heart, you'll probably just die. Or wish you were dead. But even that wouldn't help. 'Cause that douche-wad is dead every other week.

Sometimes I wonder how I got sucked into all this. My life is essentially a hilarious mishap on loop. Like a fucked up Ipod kinda deal. It's misery, but I bet if there is really a God out there, He TiVos it. And wonders as he is laughing his ass off, if he was high when he designed the universe, because how else could he have conceived a situation where my life could even happen? Pass the popcorn, she's about to walk into another shit fest. Oh fuck, there she goes again! Oh god, this is screwed up… True entertainment is bought with humiliation and a healthy amount of self hatred, am I right? I'm right.

Anyways, I'm T-bird these days (Eric's idea, not mine. He thought "Wendell Turner" was too obvious. And not cohesive with the super awesome image he wanted to create for the group. Whatever, 'cause ripping off the name of a gang in a sixties movie is a lot cooler. And way more creative. Clearly). Formerly known as Wendy Testaburger. The Boobless Wonder. Crossdressing superstar. Screw-up Extraordinaire. I've been a member of Fingerbang for four years now, and never once did I question myself. Never once did I stop and think maybe it was a bad idea to give up all things feminine in the name of chasing fame and fortune. Never once did I sit up in the middle of the night thinking, "Holy shit what am I doing? " Never once did I stop working, stop moving forward long enough to realize how triple-fucked I was with this whole thing.

Not until I was so far up the shit-creek that had I had a paddle, its only use would be to beat myself unconscious with it.

I'm clearly an idiot.

My realization happened halfway between bites of a pastrami sandwich. Which meant when the realization fully hit, the people around me were informed of this. With hunks of half-chewed pastrami-on-rye to the face. Way to spread the epiphany, right? It's just so typical.

It all went down a little bit like this.

Kenny has always been the talented one. Kay, really, this guy can sing. Don't get me wrong I can sing too, but they have to autotune the shit outta my voice so it's low enough. You know, to pass for a dude's. But Kenny? He's got some pipes. Respect the pipes.

He's got other pipes too. In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that he's not only the most talented, but also the most popular, best looking and generally the best known member of the group, Eric would have kicked him out a long ass time ago. Kenny's been arrested twelve times for possession of some sort. You name it, he's been found trying to get high off it. I think its just an excuse to get frisked by the blonde cop off 5th, but that's just my opinion. Not that he has to pull that stuff to get frisked. Trust me, you'd have to be blind or asexual not to wanna frisk the _hell_ out of Kenny McCormick.

Anyways, Kenny and Eric were arguing about Kenny's latest run in (apparently, Kenny tried to make a break for it, but ended up crashing his Porsche into a dumpster 'cause he was too high to be able to keep the car in a straight line), and I was just chilling. Eating my sandwich. Watching Kenny's scruff-rough jaw clench in frustration and wondering how it tasted.

"You fucking poor piece of SHIT! If killing you wasn't so useless, I'd kill you with my bare hands! Put my fist right through your skull and take a shit in the cavity where your brain is supposed to be!" Eric will always think of Kenny as poor and worthless, despite the fact that Kenny is now insured for fifty million dollars. He reached for Kenny's throat and Kenny didn't even flinch. We had a show the next day, so he knew Eric would not kill him. It wasn't worth the cost of rescheduling.

I was only half listening to all the commotion, because really, it happened almost every week. Nothing new here. I ogled Kenny's ass in relative peace to the soundtrack of he and Eric bitching at each other like forty year old women. This, by the way is another reason it sucks to be a girl pretending to be a boy. I really have to be careful about getting caught while Kenny-watching. Imagine the press if people caught onto that particular hobby of mine.

So then, Kenny says, "Dude, T-bird's the liability here. No matter what I do, if it gets out that he's a she, no one's gonna take us seriously anymore. So back the fuck off, Eric. We're fucked anyways." I was offended for multiple reasons, and a little crushed (not only does my super-crush see me as a threat to his career…he called me T-bird. Great. That's exactly how I want to be seen by Kenny. As T-bird, the pseudo-male Fingerbang would be better off without). But I shook that off in lieu of the realization that began right there. I guess I'd never really thought about my situation that way before, till Kenny said it (everything Kenny says sounds like sex and danger, so of course, I probably listened more closely to him anyways).

And well, sure, I figured it'd suck for me if the truth got out. Be a laughing stock and all, probably never find work again in this town. Definitely kill off most of my female fanbase. But a liability? I anticipated a little media backlash, but ultimately, wouldn't it just increase the hype? Get some more attention for the group? Basically, raise public awareness? They say all publicity is good publicity.

But when it came down to it, Kenny was right. We were artists, no matter what rags like _People_ said about our music. It was about marketing, but we genuinely worked at what we did. Artistic expression and all that.

Kyle spends months on every set of lyrics. Stan does a lot of the composing, and a whole team sets it up once he gets a strain worked out. Eric manages the business part, but even he works at vocals. He's maybe the most determined of us, because his voice is the worst. He HAS to work the hardest. We all take dance, and our instructor (Mr. Puce…but don't laugh or he'll cut you. Not even kidding) is no slouch. We don't get ANY slack there; Eric lost about forty pounds after the first MONTH of plies and pirouettes. Our choreography and stage directions are rehearsed and planned till they are burned into our SKULLS. I design the album covers on photoshop and oversee the music process. It's all very involved. Anyone who says we're just puppets trying to make a buck has never been there. So shut up already. It's a real thing, okay?

And no one would take us seriously if they knew what I was pulling. Not that the horny thirteen year old girls who form the biggest part of our fan population can be considered serious in terms of music evaluation….still. We'd won Grammys. Other artists saw the effort, the significance of everything we did. There were people to impress here, our real purpose at stake (if you weren't talking to Eric- who would tell you that our purpose was cash, no question). I could single handedly turn this all into some joke.

Still, I didn't see how it was possible that I'd be discovered. I lived this persona. Never had "girly-days"; I lived in big jeans and preppy suitjackets and vests. I'd cut all my hair off; my dedication sealed in the scene-kid fauxhawke I tousled with mousse every morning. I didn't mingle as much as the other dudes (got the "good one" reputation because of it), just in case people got too nosy about my personal life. I knew how to pitch my voice for interviews and conversation with outsiders. But most of all, I was careful. I didn't let my act down unless it was absolutely safe within the confines of "in the know's" company. And even then, sometimes I just forgot. T-Bird is my life now. Wendy's the _side-gig_. Really, the only way I'm reminded that I actually have a vagina is when Kenny does the whole walking around shirtless thing. And once a month. But other than that…I can ignore my girlyparts most of the time.

I almost told Kenny right there not to worry. That I wouldn't blow my secret; they hadn't caught on by now, what were the odds they ever would?

But it's about this time that Kyle goes, "Dudes! Check the latest buzz! You ain't gonna like it, Eric." They shared a meaningful look, and Kyle waved around his little silver phone. He carries that thing around like it's made of gold and orgasms. He's always checking his updates, clutching his Blackberry close to his heart when it's not glued under his nose. God, Kyle's such a nerd.

"What?" Eric spat back at Kyle, and yeah, they still hate each other. Eric probably wouldn't even bother asking Kyle what he seemed so excited about, except that Kyle doesn't call Eric "Eric" unless it's really fucking important. Like, Fingerbang's funds or reputation is in trouble kind of important. And when Eric's millions are in trouble, he's a goddamn piranha dude. Seriously. Don't fuck with Eric's money, unless you have a death wish or hate your parents or something.

Just ask Scott Tenorman if you don't believe me.

"Just saw the latest coverpage of Celebrity today, and guess what the headline is?" Kyle looked worried, but kind of happy to have everyone's attention. Being the bringer of bad news means you get the spotlight, and Kyle is insecure enough to dig that.

"Just tell us, kike!" Eric was beginning to lose his temper (fucker is the opposite of patient), and Kyle just smirked. He was loving this.

"'Is T-bird Gay? A Closer Look at the Secrets of Fingerbang'," Kyle read with dramatic emphasis on the word 'gay'. Eric stomped over to Kyle's side. Snatching the phone from his fingers, his eyebrows rose high then came together at a steep angle.

"Shit," he muttered, then read the caption.

"_Singer "T-Bird" has never dated a girl that we know of. Sources confirm. Why is it that this teen heartthrob isn't getting lucky? Here's our theory!"_

Sonuvabitch.

"Told you," Kenny shrugged, and Eric glared daggers (first at him, then at me).

"No, I agree. It's about to hit the fan, Eric," Kyle shook his head, and I kind of wanted to hit him, "we're gonna need a coverstory, or we're fucked. People start asking questions and it all falls apart. We have to nip this in the bud, dudes."

"We'll see how committed Wendy is," Kenny leered, and I blanked. His leer is sex in facial-expression form.

But then it hit me. I did my spit take thing as the weight of it all crushed into my lungs. SHIT!

A coverstory.

"You guys," I choked out, fingers crushing my sandwich and pressing little divets into the bread, "The HELL do you mean a coverstory?" But I knew.

"I always said you were a dyke, Wendy," Eric sighed, wiping mayonnaise off his cheek; he knew I didn't like this. I felt my heart sink a little bit; there was just no way out, said the expression on Eric's face. He was decided. All I could do was beg for mercy at this point. I opened and shut my mouth, then turned to Kenny. I didn't expect him to save me, but I searched his face for help anyways. He crossed his arms.

"Gonna quit after coming this far?" Kenny's voice was a challenge, "just what do you have to lose, T?" Not the deliverance I wanted, but he was right. I had absolutely nothing to lose except my career. And only in the pure fuckery that is my life would my career demand that I date a woman to prevent the press from calling me gay.

Epiphanies suck ass.

"I hate my life."


	2. Entry 2: Shark Week

**Sup guys? Enjoy the fuckery.**

**South Park isn't mine.**

_Hello there again, whoever's watching this vlog. By listening to my side, you've already done more than my real friends ever did._

_Sometimes I scold myself for things I've done. I watch myself in the past, like thinking about it now can somehow stop it from happening way back when. Is that pathetic? I think we're all allowed our pathetic moments._

_No, I'm not a tough girl. But I'm tougher than you. Goodnight._

Bebe was always everything I wasn't. She has huge tits, for one thing. BMT, we call them (that's: Bebe's Monster Tits). If my boobs were Texas, hers are frikkin Sherpa. That's the most mountainous region in the world, and even the Sherpians would yodel at the size of Bebe's boobs.

She also says whatever the fuck comes into her head. Bebe doesn't understand the meaning of the term "discretion," nor does she bother with silly things like "privacy."

I remember this one time freshman year where she wanted to go to the bathroom to tend to her…girl business, but the teacher wouldn't let her.

So instead of subtly hinting at her bleeding vagina, the way any normal girl would do if she wanted to use the bathroom (males fear bleeding vaginas like they fear death itself), Bebe goes,

"Hey douche-master, unless you want to pay for the drycleaning to get the bloodstain out of my new white jeans, and _believe_ me—I WILL bill you—you better get over the inferiority complex your tiny cock is causing you and let me go to the fucking bathroom."

And the thing is, he let her go.

I hadn't seen her in years, but I wondered about her sometimes. Mostly, about how pissed she was at me for leaving without saying goodbye.

Well once upon a time, I woke up and just wanted to watch some TV. I was stressing about the tabloid business, and I wanted to unwind a little. Maybe catch a marathon of Lost or something. Let my brain numb out for a few hours; it's reasonable, right?

But once again, my case of _life-hates-you-just-give-up _strikes again. Because sitting in the living room like a bad case of deja-vù, was Bebe Stevens. I rubbed my eyes, blinked twice, rubbed them again.

"Don't do that, Wendy," she goes without even turning around, "if you rub your eyes like that, you're going to get premature wrinkles."

Any doubt that I had that it was really Bebe and I wasn't just see things disappeared right then. Bebe doesn't fuck around when it comes to premature wrinkles.

"Hey, Bebe," I said slowly, still trying to take this new information in, "now…don't take this the wrong way…I mean, I'm really glad to see you and all…but…_why_ are you _here_?"

"I'm here to help you," she smiled.

"Right," I replied. Fuck me, she looked like a shark—all glistening white teeth pointed straight at me. I swallowed dryly and prayed she hasn't smelled my fear yet.

After a few moments, I muttered, "excuse me," and got the hell out. As I went, I heard her chuckle.

And I swear to god, she switched the TV to Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

Eric Cartman was a complete and utter dick. He's a cocksucking douchebag dillweed, and I was going to murder him.

"ERIC!" I yelled as I stomped into his office (which, just FYI, is decorated with various tasteful indoor plants, modest office furniture, and a huge flag with a swastika on it hanging behind his desk).

"Why, hello there Wendy, it's so nice to see you on this fine day," Cartman said in an overly pleasant tone. It's utter bullshit, because he only uses that "I'm innocent, don't kill me slowly and painfully" voice when he is busy pissing people off.

"Fuck you," I slammed my palms down on his desk and glowered into his beady little eyes, "why is Bebe Stevens watching TV in the living room?"

"Because the TV in the den doesn't have as many channels?"

"ERIC!"

"You're totally going to thank me for that if you let me explain," he said defensively, "it's one of my most awesome ideas ever."

"Bringing Bebe into this mess is the WORST idea ever!"

"Nuh uh!" Eric retorted defiantly, "It's a totally tits idea! Bebe's perfect!"

Oh, just FYI, the tits thing he does to annoy me. And also just FYI, it works.

"I haven't spoken to Bebe since high school!" I cried, "_what _in the ever loving name of Jesus's toaster possessed you to bring her here, tell her my career crushing secret, and _ask for her HELP_?"

"She WANTED to help!"

"Bebe Stevens _doesn't _help people, Eric! Didn't you figure that out after she _tricked_ you into paying for her college?"

Eric's face visibly darkened at the memory.

"…after she used your own contract against you, took nearly forty thousand dollars straight out of your pocket and got your MOM to pay the rest with the money she was going to use to buy your birthday presen—"

"ALRIGHT ALRIGHT! JESUS!" Eric's face was red and puffy as a balloon.

"Now explain to me why you trusted the same girl who nearly cost you your career and turned _your own mother against_ you with the single biggest risk to the well being of Fingerbang and my reputation! Because I'm not understanding how you can even BE a big enough of a _DUMBASS FUCKTARD _to get to that level!"

"It was HER idea!" he said, voice whiny. Typical, isn't it? Eric only steals bad ideas.

I was feeling low after my little talk with Eric, so I went to find Kyle. When I walked into the dance studio and found him at the ballet bar. He was deep in concentration, his leg gracefully outstretched over he wooden bar his arms floating artistically over it.

What a fruit.

"Sup, Kyle?" I interrupted loudly. Surprised by this, he tripped, falls forward and smashed his crotch against the protruding lip of the bar.

I suppose Jews really can't dance.

Because I'm kind of a douchebag, when I stopped laughing long enough to speak, I said, "practicing for the _Nutcracker_ ballet?"

"Go fuck yourself, Wendy," Kyle gritted out, clutching himself painfully and rolling around on the floor. He groaned and coughed, and I, personally, felt astoundingly grateful for once for my lady parts.

As he settled down, I crouched beside him, stifling the last of my effort and valiantly attempting to look contrite for causing him ball-crunching agony.

"Ouch," I said sympathetically, "sorry 'bout your balls." But instead of acceptibg my apology, Kyle continued to moan like the drama king he is. So, I patiently waited for him to finish feeling sorry for himself.

Then he opened his eyes just enough to glare at me. "Do you have ANY idea how much that hurts?" he spat venomously.

Clearly, someone needed a chill pill. "Nope," I replied, "it's one of the only perks of my being an actual girl. Speaking of which, I actually came down here because I needed to talk to you about something."

"Seriously?" he asked, like it was a bad time of something. I just nodded.

After lying there for a few more moments, he sat up and sighed. "What."

I decide to continue despite his baffling lack of enthusiasm (some people are so self centered). "Cartman hired Bebe to pretend to be my girlfriend for the press," I explained, a crease forming between my eyes, "I think its bullshit."

"Why?" Kyle asked, still annoyingly unruffled. Damn it, why did no one see what a fucking landmine this is but me?

"He says it was _Bebe's_ idea."

"And…that's a bad thing?" he looked perplexed, and I gave him my most exasperated look. Had her boobs actually caused all the males within a ten-mile radius to have brain failure?

"You don't know her like I do!"

"Wendy," Kyle put his hand on my shoulder. You'd think it was to comfort me, but he just used it for support as he hoisted himself to his feet, "Bebe was your best friend in high school, right? So maybe she's just trying to help you out now. Out of solidarity or something."

"Kyle! Bebe isn't…you don't KNOW what she's like! Look, Bebe only does things for two reasons: to get her way, or to get even," I waved my hands around like a conductor having a seizure for dramatic effect, "she's going to screw us, I just know it!"

"You're overreacting," Kyle decided with a roll of his eyes, "besides, this works out good for her, too you know." He got that smart aleck-y gleam in his eye, and I had to pause when I saw it flash in his slanted green eyes.

"How?" I asked carefully.

"She's getting a free ride to fame," he shrugged like it was soooo obvious, "The press is going to be all over that shit. She's going to have more free publicity than Miley Cyrus with a boob job scar."

"Oh." That particular fact hadn't occurred to me till just then. Kyle's a pretty smart guy, gotta hand it to him.

"Dude, I can't wait to tell Kenny. He's gonna love this," he commented as he gathers his things and heads for the door, "he's gonna have a stroke I tell him! Man, he spent all of high school drooling over BMTs. It'll be like Christmas when he learns they're gonna be hanging around here!"

Fuck. I looked down at my own tiny titties mournfully, and noted that I didn't even have rack to hide my broken heart behind.


End file.
